


Choice

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little thing for tf-rare-pairing prompt Drift/Gasket 'never wanted anything from you.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice

Drift came to, flailing. Or trying to—Syk drained the motor actuators of charge. It normally left him feeling deliciously wrung out and empty, light and hollow without the pain of hunger. But when you woke up like this, blue optics peering down into your face, well, it wasn’t a good feeling.  Especially seeing how feeble his limbs were, patting almost ludicrously off the other’s chassis.

“Hey,now, friend. It’s all right,” the voice below the blue optics spoke, a hand gently catching one of his, as though it was no threat at al.

Friend. All right.The words rang wrong through Drift's Syk-stirred mind. He didn't have friends.  And things were never all right.  Even in a Syk-dream, things always verged on the monstrous, there was always a bad trip or terror just around the corner, haunting, hunting him.  

"What..." He couldn't even finish the question, mind too shattered to make words.

"You're safe here," the other said, answering...something. It was an answer, at least, something to reach for and hang onto. "We found you, on the edges of the Red Zone."

"...we."  

The blue optics cast a glow down the other's face, catching the curve of a patient smile. "My friends and I."  

Drift scoured the other's face for a sign of deceit, trickery.  "Syphoners." It was the only explanation he could muster, the only 'friends' down here were those who banded together to take from another. Until they ran out of others to prey on and turned on themselves. But it didn't fit, even so. If they were syphoners, he'd be strapped down.  They'd certainly not be happy to see him awake, able to see their faces.

 

The other patted his hand, patient. "It's all right. We chased them off."  

Drift felt off-the-rails, like he couldn't follow the line of conversation.  "You chased them off."

"The syphoners.  They're cowards, after all, when it's not all of them against one mech."  The face turned away, and the other mech reached over and took a half-ration of energon. It was dirty stuff, dulute and grey-skinned on top, but it was fuel, more than Drift had seen in days. "Come on," the other said, "have some."

He stared at it, warily, but wariness only lasted so long when you were starving. Sure, it might have been drugged--how many times had he taken contaminated Syk or circuit boosters?  No point getting picky now, not with the way his tank pinged empty.  And even to his still foggy brain, it didn't make sense to wake him up just to poison him again with a smile.  And it tasted good as it hit his systems, sweet and strong, like he could almost feel it convert to current, singing along his circuitry.  

"Eh," the mech said, tipping the dirty glass in his hand. "Not quite so fast, friend. You'll make yourself sick."

There was something so absurd in saying that, genteel, considerate words, to a mech you scraped up from the gutters, half-delirious on Syk, that Drift started laughing, which tangled with a cough in his throat.  

The mech took the glass from his hand, laying it aside.  “More later,” he said, gently.  “I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Gasket.”

“Upzoner.” The blue optics were a giveaway, now that Drift could start making clear thoughts again.

“I was, yes.” A shrug. “Not anymore.”  As though that were nothing.

Drift pushed up more, trying to blink away the wave of dizziness that swept over him. “What d’you want from me?”  

“From you? Nothing. We just wanted to help.”

He snorted, drawing a knee up between them. “To help.”  

“Friend.” An awkward pause: Drift hadn’t given his name yet. Didn’t intend to, either.  “There’s strength in numbers, especially down here.  One mech can survive, but five, seven, ten?  Maybe then they can start doing more than surviving.”

“You’re crazy.”  

Gasket laughed.  “Am I? We were able to help you, get this energon, enough to share with a stranger.” He tilted his helm, patiently waiting for Drift to connect the dots.  

"Why me?" 

"Why not you?" Another shrug. "You think anyone deserves to be taken by syphoners or recyclers?" 

"No." The word fell flat and harsh between them, like old tin. But it was always the risk with boosting.  

"Well, then," Gasket said, folding his hands on his lap, as though it was a settled thing. "We helped because we think the same.  See? We have something in common already."  

Right. Drift had had about enough of this optimistic sludge. He pushed off the rough berth--a door that had been repurposed quickly for the job.  "Thanks for the rescue and all, but."

"But you're leaving."  

Drift forced his legs to stop wobbling--or at least to stop wobbling so visibly. "Gonna tell me I can't?"  A note of challenge in his voice. Come on, Gasket. Let's see what's behind the 'kind benefactor' act. 

"Of course you can.  We're not jailers, after all." Gasket rose to his feet.  "But."

But. Drift snorted. Uh-huh.  Here it comes. He stopped in the doorway, looking back over one shoulder. "But." 

"But," Gasket repeated, "You can go back out there, chasing boosts, barely making it. You're tough. You're a survivor. I can see that much. Or." He pursed his lip plates for a klik. "You could try something new, at least see what it's like before you walk away. Think of it as a new experience. You might even like it."  

"And how you know I wouldn't just sell you all out? Rob you? Maybe worse?" 

Gasket shrugged. "Because you're not the type."  He grinned. "If you were the type, you wouldn't even ask the question, after all."

"You don't even know my name." Really this whole thing was ridiculous. Drift was beginning to think he was still on Syk and having just some...really lame picotrip.  

"I trust when the time is right, you'll share that, too." 

Drift felt something rise within him, an urge to ball his fists, to strike at Gasket. How naive could he be? How dare he look so smug and comfortable, almost serene?  "You're an idiot," he snapped, a compromise with himself, trying to hurt with words. 

"And you've not left," Gasket said, pointedly. 

Drift frowned, at himself, mostly. No, he hadn't left. Not...yet.  

"I'm not saying it'll be easy," Gasket added. "You've got the Syk to detox from.  We don't have the tools for a system flush, so it won't be pleasant." 

Drift knew that all too well. There'd been stretches where he hadn't had the money to get his fix, and he'd spent nights, starving and miserable, his systems running almost scorchingly hot, nearly clotting the fluids in his fuel lines.  

"But," Gasket added quietly, "You'd be free of it."

Free. All he sought in boosting was freedom, just a temporary respite, a few cycles of forgetting who and what and where he was.  And he always came back down, stuck in it, lower and lower each time. Gasket didn't look like he ever wanted to forget any of those things. Why? How?  Suddenly, he wanted to know, he wanted whatever it was that let Gasket stand in front of him, shoulders not hunched, optics not wary. His mouth worked, his feet shifting side to side.  He looked out the door--an abandoned shop, debouching onto a cracked-pavemented street, like any of a thousand other streets in the lower zones. 

And then he looked back at Gasket, his blue optics calm and steady, the energon glass glinting in the dim light.  

"...Drift," he said, finally, his voice rough as though the word had been rooted deep inside his chassis.  "Name's Drift." 

 

 


End file.
